As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.
Also I'd like to thank the four(!) people who reviewed the last chapter:
DL Barnner: We have a winner! I do have a tendency to use words that are effectively dead but I do not warn for that! That's one free fic of your choice for you. Send me a request and I'll fill it out within a week. And capitalizing Grimm, now that I did not know. (The more you knowwww) so thanks a bunch. Though, the way I thought was that Grimm was a thing like bludbat.
As for a lonely…. Well, it's more of a thing that's hard to explain. The way I'm working is that there aren't many other Grimms in the world and they're hard to find. Being the only one would be lonely. No one else would know what you're going through personally. Finding another grimm (okay I tried capitalizing it, it just feels wrong to me, I don't know why) was extraordinarily good luck on Nick's part. Coming from a basically non-existent family would make Nick eager to find others like him- a sort of mock family if you will. It's a commonly repeated behavior with people from backgrounds similar to Nick who are in some way set out from the typical.
TV Centric Universe: Thanks again for calling it awesome. Ha. I still don't believe you. I really will make you cry, you know, if you still want them to be happy. I'm just going to sit in the corner and sort of grimace at "boyfriend"…. Uh…. Sure…. Boyfriend….. yeah…. That's what they are. Heh.
There's a bit of a saying I learned when I moved to St. Louis: If you don't like the weather, stick around.
Just because of the joke I made earlier about the weather that probably went over your head. I do these things.
These things that no one likes.
ShoelessKayla: Shh Shh Shhhhh, my darling. Don't question Warren… he's important. Don't worry some will be revealed. I will warn again that I am leaving a lot of this vague on purpose. I want that ambiguity to infuse a confusion both with the characters and with the readers 'cause, you know, if life were laid out like a book no one would be lost or confused about life at the end of the week. I know I spend ninety percent of my day confused about what people are doing. In life we rarely get the whole story so why should I give to you what no one has?
That was probably confusing. Whatever. I'm being distracted by woodsmen on the TV. What can I say? I have a type and it gets in the way of my typing. Heh.
YukiXP: Nice name, first of all. My ex-stepmother's new husband goes by that. His full name is something Jewish and graceful. Lucky bastard. Anywho. Interesting? Me? Well there, darling, you're trying to make me blush. The wife won't like that all that much. Ha. I'm glad you find my style and attitude intriguing- that's the most polite descriptors I've gotten about those two before. And good gagging golly, thank you. I do have a formidable vocabulary, particularly for someone of my education level and academic track record. (Humility is a word I have yet to learn.) Ululation and tintinnabulation are two of my favorite words; one I learned from reading Lord of the Flies and the other I extracted from an Edgar Allen Poe poem.
Re 'Hope': It is my own. I am first and foremost a poet (oh lawdy how pretentious I sound) and generally only write fiction when I particularly feel like it. "Those Things Without Words" is a poem I wrote at work when I was bored. I'm sort of quoting bits of it while planning out the sequel to it while writing this story. My favorite line is also the theme for this story: "The chasm of my chest a cliché / Made out of the universal poverty / In which our hearts may grow / But nothing lives within."
I will address part of it, at least.
ANYWAY.
On with the show. This one is coming in a little late because I had to turn in my research proposal Friday night. And then I spent the rest of the night watching Eddie Izzard and playing hangman. Productivity.
Chapter Three: Shroedinger's Love in an Elevator
An impure skid of (in)humanity i'the churning rift of time. Forever a moment livesdies….Eternally happening and immediately no more than a dream, which upon wakingmaking, becomes no more than an intangible muddle.
Eyes closed, leaning against the wall inside the elevator, Nick felt wrecked in the worst way possible. So over sensitive from the rush and thrill that was the chase and capture and victory (though short it would be, he knew) that he could hear Warren not far from him bouncing on his feet. Eager, so very eager.
Nick opens his eyes a crack and grinned at Warren. Warren returns it.
A flurry of shoves and pulls and they're tangled together; Warren's ass resting on the handrail, his legs around Nick's hips holding them together. They buss with teeth and tongue, their lips touching only an incidental part of the exchange. Nails dig, hips shove, teeth scrape and hands tug clothes and hair out of position. This is needed; this is necessary.
Nick bites harder, drags welts down Warren's exposed lower back and presses violently against him. Warren is so responsive, so simple, and so easy. He bites back as hard as Nick and digs his nails into the back of Nick's neck and clutches at him with his thighs. His head collides with the wall when Nick digs his teeth into his clavicle and sucks. Warren leaves red swelling gouges on Nick's neck and it's almost enough; a spark of something for the deprivation inside of Nick.
If Saturday had created a sort of undead hope in him then Sunday both reanimated and destroyed whatever good feelings were left in Monroe.
He elbowed the call button until it lit up then sagged upright and watched the red numbers flick on top of the door. He had kept looking for Nick, more on edge than he had been in months; he had stressed himself out to the point of losing any semblance of control. Every shock of black hair, every leather jacket, ever little scuffle had sent Monroe into fugues of search and seize. Exhausted and despondent ( and several pocket watches and a few clocks lighter) Monroe was determined to spend the rest of the night and possibly the rest of the week (or month) drowning his sorrows in clocks until he forgot all about this weekend or built up for himself a solid line of denial.
Ding
It's one of those moments Monroe both wishes to remember in great detail for the rest of his life and forget entirely and never be reminded of it again.
Nick.
Most Definitely Alive and Not Little More Than Hamburger Meat Nick Burkhardt frotting (very aggressively, Monroe might add) with that young man Monroe had seen earlier.
Monroe stands there, exhausted arms full of clock, too shocked to do more than grunt in a confusing mix of arousal, joy, anger, grief, jealousy, and lack of understanding. The elevator door slides shut, Nick's head turning slowly. His eyes hazed over in lust widened, his red swollen lips stretch their shiny selves in surprise. Monroe feels the grief and unrequited heartbreak as if it is new and not months and months old. The doors sigh and clack quietly at meeting each other.
He walks quickly away, his exhaustion not forgotten but multiplied exponentially. He shoulders open the door to the stairwell. This late he is the only one there. The sounds of his boxes shuffle loudly throughout the flights of stairs when he sets them down. Standing back from them he takes a shaky shock-laden breath.
Monroe's knees collapse and he pushes himself into the landing's corner, dragging his knees up to his face. He digs his face into his knees and clenches his entirety as hard as he can.
He feels weak.
Unimportant.
Betrayed.
A small, well aimed part of him whispers that he deserves this. Did he really think a creature like him deserved something as good as that?
He doesn't cry.
His face is hot.
He doesn't cry.
His chest crumples.
He doesn't cry.
His stomach churns.
He doesn't cry.
His body shakes.
But he doesn't cry.
He doesn't deserve that either probably.